by Ren Garcia
The morning bell tolled.
“Well, there’s my cue,” Kaly said, standing. “Time to go to the bridge and stare into the little visor for awhile.”
She put her tray into the trash and then leaned down and whispered into his ear.
“Hey—I know your lady must have troubled you yesterday somehow. I know you were hurting. I’m glad I could be there to help … to take your mind off things, you know? You’re my friend, Bel—never forget that. If your lady broke your heart, or chose to discard you, she must be crazy. You are a wonderful man, in every way.”
“Thanks, Kaly.”
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and headed off to the bridge.
He returned to his office and checked his mailings. There wasn’t much—his duties were miniscule at best. He looked up the Hoban Royal Navy on his terminal. As he read, Kaly appeared to have summed up their history quite well: The Governor of Hoban, a Lord Crowe, had gotten into a tiff with the Fleet over a bit of contraband goods that had been seized. Apparently, the Governor had a little streak of pirate in him, and was enraged that the Fleet had busted up his ring. He then forbade the Fleet from approaching Hoban, instead forming a small navy of old Planet Fall corvettes and called it the Hoban Royal Navy. He was quite proud of it at first, and even thought that such a thing would become a trend, each local planet having its own small navy to protect against the Xaphans. Perhaps the Fleet was no longer needed.
The Navy proved to be a disaster. Sloppy standards, dubious morals and motivations, ships in worn out shape and barely space-worthy. The Fleet had to come and save them from breakdowns time and time again. The only battle they ever fought with the Xaphans at Two-Pitch Nebula was a complete rout. The great Xaphan hero, Princess Marilith of Xandarr, was, for once, victorious in battle driving the HRN corvettes before her until the Fleet came and covered their retreat.
Soon, red-faced, the Navy was disbanded, and the Governor sought to hide all traces of their existence. He scrapped the ships, threw several officers into prison, and sent the uniforms off to be burned. All trace of the HRN was made to vanish almost overnight.
Not quite everything—this lovely coat, made with care and fine materials, still stood. Stenstrom would wear it with pride.
27 An Incident at Terrabus
Stenstrom’s mask was feeling rather hot on his face today, and his skin beneath it was getting chaffed and red. He wished he could take it off, but he didn’t dare remove it for the clawed hand searching for his soul found him almost instantly without it.
There was a knock on his door. He was sitting behind his desk trying to catch up on some paperwork, but his mask was bothering him too much to get anything done. “Come in,” he said, hand on his face trying to adjust the mask into a comfortable position.
The door opened. There stood crewmanForest, one of the Sensing Station crewmen from the bridge. “Bel, you got a moment?”
He looked up from his work. “Sure, Forest. What’s up?”
Forest blushed a little. “Can you please come to the bridge with me?”
“Why?”
“It’s better if you just come.”
The Bridge? “I’m not allowed on or anywhere near the bridge—remember? The boatswain gave me the lecture.”
“It’sokay, really. Just for a second. You’re not going to get in trouble or anything. The boatswain—he’s a dork, you know that.”
Stenstrom had no idea why he was being summoned to the bridge—maybe he was in trouble for something. Maybe Dunks wanted to let him in on their secret operation. “All right,” he said, feeling a bit of mild excitement despite himself.
He stood up and put his HRN coat on, Forest waiting quietly as he did so. Stenstrom popped his hat on and then followed him through the seedy corridors, his Tyrol boots clunking on the thick, riveted metal flooring, to the Sandwich’s tiny and rather primitive bridge at the top of the ship. Within, several crewmen sat at their stations. There was no holo-cone or viewing screen on the bridge—just an array of large, head’s up infused windows all around, like a cathedral of glass lit up in occasional, computer-generated color. The far wall of the bridge was a solid pane of strong pyro glass, with small panes wrapping around either side trailing just past where the helm and the navigator sat. It was like being in a fishbowl.
The helmsman sat at his chair and looked nervous. So too did the navigator.
Through the windows, Stenstrom could see the ship was nestled in some sort of space-borne junkyard—the murky outside lit up in some sort of blue filter through the windows. There were a number of old corroded relics floating about outside, nudging into each other in the solar tide. There were layers of wrecked ships above as well. It looked like an asteroid field of twisted and collided shipping.
“Where in Creation are we?” he asked, noting the melancholy hulks floating about outside.
“We’re in the Kills, Terrabus Field—Xaphan ships. The site of an old battle a couple hundred years back,” Kaly said, waving at him from her station.
Stenstrom thought a moment. “Terrabus field—isn’t that near Xaphan space?”
“Yeah, Bel, it is.”
“What are we doing near Xaphan space? That’s not on our route, is it? What’s going on here? Where’s Dunks?”
“There, there’s Dunks,” Forest said, pointing.
Lying on the floor, on the far side of the command chair, was Lt. Dunkster, flat on his back, arms splayed out, the tips of his boots pointing toward the glass ceiling of the bridge. Kaly went to his side and took his limp hand. She was wearing her usual pink hair band. Stenstrom went to him and knelt down next to Kaly, Forest following. “What’s this? What’s wrong with him?”
Kaly cleared her throat. “Well, we’re not sure, but we think he’s in toxic shock. We think he got hold of a bad dirty courtesan on Bazz and is all tox’ed up with her.”
“One of his wives?”
“eh …yeah …”
“It just hit him all of a sudden,” Forest added. “Up one moment, down the next.”
“He needs a Hospitaler,” Stenstrom said.
“We don’t have a Hospitaler aboard, Bel. You know that. We, umm, were hoping you could do something for him,” Kaly said quietly.
“Me? What do you expect me to do?”
“Kaly tells us you’re a sorcerer,” Forest blurted out. “She was bragging on your powers the other day, says she’s seen you do some remarkable things. We were hoping you could ‘magic up’ some sort of cure until we can get him to a Hospitaler sanctum. Cabril 17 is not too far. We just need to keep him alive until we get him there.”
Stenstrom looked out the windows again and adjusted his mask. The Sandwich was not moving; it was stationary within the drifting masses of blasted Xaphan shipping.
“Why are we just sitting here?”
“We have a slight issue and need to sit here for a time. Please, Bel—Kaly told us that you could help any who is in medical distress,” Forest said.
Stenstrom shook his head. “Kaly is mistaken.”
She looked a little desperate. “But, Bel, I saw you remedy yourself that one time—I helped you.”
“You’re confusing what addled me with this—this is a totally different thing. My soul was at stake. I hadn’t tox’ed up on a dirty courtesan.”
Dunks began to convulse. “Please, Bel. Is there anything you can do for him? Anything at all—it couldn’t hurt in any case. I know you can do something for him. Please …” Kaly said.
Stenstrom reached out and felt his pulse—his heart was racing. He touched his forehead; it was burning up. “Forest, go get cool water and some towels.” Forest got up and ran to the door of the bridge. “Kaly, I need merriander and a spring of rosemary from the hold, okay?”
“Merriander and rosemary,” she repeated.
“Go now.” Kaly ran out of the bridge.
With the crew watching, Stenstrom spread his fingers and shook his hand. A white Holystone appeared.
“What’s
that?” the helmsman asked. “What do you have there?”
“Holystone. This should slow his heart rate and stabilize his system a little. But, it’s no cure—he needs a Hospitaler with all speed.”
He checked Dunks’ pulse again, and it began to slow. The Holystone appeared to be working. “Okay, once Kaly returns with the stuff I asked for, he should be stabilized for now. Where’s the mate or the boatswain? Come on—we need to get moving.”
The helmsman swallowed. “Can’t, Belmont … Dunks is just going to have to hope you know what you’re doing for the time being, as we have a slight problem.”
“Yeah? What is it?”
Stenstrom looked out the windows again—junked out hulks floating about everywhere in a filtered blue tint. He thought he saw something move in the distance.
A warning buzzer went off.
“We have a proximity alert! Vessel moving at 8:52 AM, mark 2:45PM,” the navigator said to everybody and nobody at the same time.
“That’s our problem, Belmont,” the navigator said. “That ship out there.”
“What? Why?”
The Com chattered. “We have an incoming message,” Lt. Varnay at the Com said. “What do we do?”
“Ignore it,” the helm said.
“Play it,” Stenstrom said.
The Com ignored the message.
“What is going on here?” Stenstrom asked as Kaly and Forest returned. Stenstrom took the sprigs of merriander and rosemary, bent them in two, and stuck them in Dunk’s mouth. He then cooled his forehead with a wet towel.
“Will that stuff work, Bel?” Kaly asked, a little out of breath.
“For the time being, but not for long. Go, back to your station, okay?”
She got up and ran to her visor.
The Com went off again. “It’s him again,” Varney said. “What do we do?”
“Elder’s Balls, ignore him!” the helm barked.
Stenstrom spoke up. “Com, accept the message. Accept it.”
The Com sighed and hit the button. A wheezy voice came on through the speakers. “Dunks, where are you?”
Everybody on the bridge looked at each other.
“Dunks, answer me!”
Stenstrom cleared his voice and spoke up. “My good sir, Lt. Dunkster is indisposed.”
There was a pause. Then: “I see. Drink a little of that poison he tried to pass off on me, did he?”
“Poison?”
“Yes, your mate and your boatswain, who are now in my lucrative employ, have come clean and told all to me. Tell Dunks he’s going to be more than ‘indisposed’ in a moment once I get my crosshairs on ya’! Selling me ten years worth of cheap Zemuda tinted and scented to pass for Kanan grain spirits is a bad mistake and a crime punishable by death. On second thought, I think I’ll tell him… personally. Yes, this is about to get very personal …”
Stenstrom looked around—everybody on the bridge was wide-eyed with fear. “I’m … certain there has been a mistake. I’ll inform Lt. Dunkster of your dissatisfaction at once and …”
There was a flash through the windows. Stenstrom saw a hulk in the distance go spinning off, a gassy chemical fire lighting up its dented hull.
“That was a cassagrain attack beam,” Kaly, manning her sensing station, whispered.
Stenstrom made a cutting motion across his neck, and Lt. Varnay muted the Com. “Look, I know Dunks is running some sort of enterprise here on the side and, if this Xaphan out there has something to do with it …”
The Helmsman spoke up. “Yeah, and just what do you know about it?”
“Only that most of the ship is involved in one form or another. Out of respect for Kaly, I didn’t choose to pursue the matter further. But, I’m but not blind and I’m not stupid either.”
“Could have fooled me,” the helmsman said.
Stenstrom shot up. “How would you like to join Dunks on the floor? Huh? One more ill word out of you and that’s where you’ll be, got it?”
The helmsman started to reply, but then silenced himself.
The Navigator pitched in. “Look, Bel—you see our pay. You know we don’t make a whole lot manning a wretched frigate, and none of us are society men like you are. I’ve a wife and four children to tend to. We all have families to support. Have you ever known a day when you didn’t know where your next meal was going to come from for lack of money? Have you ever had to watch your little girls go shoeless—what sort of a father can’t afford to properly shoe his children? We joined the bloody Fleet to make something of ourselves, and look where we are, stuck on this rusting tub going nowhere. The captain supplements our purses with the occasional sale of contraband to Xaphans. There’s a big market for Kanan spirits in Xaphan space—that good Zenon whiskey they distill using water from the Great Blue Pierce—best water in the universe. That’s some high-quality stuff, and the Xaphans have a real thirst for it. They buy up any that they can get for premium prices in silver.”
Stenstrom stood there and listened. Kaly looked distressed and fidgety. “All frigates do it, Bel—just a little something to supplement our purses. We’re just providing goods that the Xaphans really want and can’t legally get, that’s all,” she said.
“Ok, that’s fine—I don’t have a problem with that,” Stenstrom said. “So what’s this guy talking about—Zemuda?”
“Zemuda’s a cheap, crappy liquor from Bazz. It’s colorless and tasteless, and you can get it by the thousand gallon drum for nothing. With a little tending, Zemuda can be made to look and taste like most anything—Dunks is an artist with it. It’s bad for your regularity, and it deals you a rocking hangover—not like the smooth, easy ride you get from the Kanan stuff, but normally, these Xaphan stiffs can’t tell the difference.”
“At least not until that Jo-Boy, Boatswain Pike, and the mate, decided to turn their coats and rat us out,” the helmsman said. “Pike’s been wanting in on Dunk’s racket for a long time.”
Stenstrom thought about it. “So, this fellow out there paid for a certain set of goods and Dunks cheated him? Is that right? So that’s the reason for the hidden apothecary in the hold—to chemically alter the smell, tint and taste of your counterfeit spirits?”
Kaly wrung her hands. “Well, Bel, this is business—and when you’re in business, that’s what you do. Real Kanan grain spirits are too hard to get through League regulators, and just a few small casks are ruinously expensive. The fake stuff Dunks sells is pretty close to real and the Xaphans just love it.”
“Except for the mind-wringing hangover and issues pooping afterwards,” the Helmsman said.
“Hope you’re not too disappointed in us, Bel?” Kaly said.
“You don’t have to ask for his approval, Kaly—who is he?” the helmsman said. “Just a cock-balled Paymaster, and a rich one at that.”
“He’s our mate, and he’s my friend,” she responded.
“Yeah, well he’s not my mate. He’s a rich, worthless Paymaster.”
“Shut up!” Kaly screamed, anger cracking her voice.
The Helmsman threw her an obscene gesture. “See that’s how our last Paymaster bought it. He saw the money Dunks was making and tried to horn in on the racket. He even tried to come up with his own fake brew. Got tox’ed up pretty nasty taste-testing it and the old boy never woke up.”
Stenstrom turned to Kaly. She nodded, verifying the story.
He stood there, looking at the people sitting in the bridge and the captain lying on the floor. “It’s fine, Kaly. Don’t worry about me,” he said. “As was just pointed out, I’ve never been without or had to worry about money. Who am I to judge? Still, I believe that even a Xaphan deserves to be dealt with honestly and—”
There was another flash from outside. Another hulk, a bit closer this time, went spiraling.
“Good Creation!” the navigator cried. “We’re going to get blasted into small bits over a load of fake booze!”
The helmsman was a little frantic. “Dunks! Wake your Planet Fall-ass up
and get us out of this!”
Stenstrom thought a moment. “Can we give the Xaphan trader what he wants?”
“We don’t have any Kanan grain spirits.”
“Can we fight?”
“With what? We’ve got a pair of penny-toots in the fore-quarter, but that’s it!” the navigator said.
“Penny-toots? Those are stationary guns, yes?”
“They’re only good for clearing out unmoving targets like asteroids.”
“Then let’s call the Fleet for help.”
“The Fleet?” the helmsman said, shocked. “Assuming we survive until they get here, we could all then expect a nice stay in Hagthorpe prison for running contraband to the Xaphans, Zemuda or not.”
“Alive and incarcerated is preferable to a free corpse floating, is it not?”
Another blast nearby.
Stenstrom sat down in Dunk’s seat. “Com, call the Fleet—when they get here we can make up a story and talk our way out of trouble.”
Lt. Varnay hesitated, and then began punching buttons to put the call out.
“What are you doing?” the helmsman barked.
“Saving my skin! I want to live,okay! I’m calling the Fleet. Bel will get us out of trouble.”
The helmsman threw his hands up. “Well, we’re good and stuffed now!”
Stenstrom looked outside, at the maze of old hulks lit up in the blue filter. “Helm, can we run?”
“That’s a Ghome 15 out there—got three times our speed.”
“We’re going to have to vacate this position and find suitable cover.”
Stenstrom stood and walked to the windows and looked out. “I see a craggy mass of junked vessels over yonder and a rather large vessel of some sort behind them—might provide us a wealth of places to hide. I think our ship will fit into those spaces just barely. Helm, let’s go there now.”